The tension surrounding the recent NRM party primaries as well as the upcoming Central Executive Committee (CEC) is not just concerning; it is deeply disheartening.
Elections should be a time of hope and civic expression, not fear and intimidation. When people feel threatened or silenced for participating in shaping their country’s future, it sends a troubling message: that power outweighs the people.
For many Ugandans, especially those already marginalized such as LGBTQ communities, this only deepens the fear that their voices are not valued. Beyond physical harm, this environment takes a significant psychological toll, discouraging participation and fostering isolation.
All this makes one wonder whether the state is doing enough to prevent political violence ahead of the 2026 general elections towards marganilsed communities. So, whereas Uganda has the legal frameworks, institutions and expertise needed to ensure peaceful elections, these are mere structures on paper and, therefore, not enough.
What is missing is strong, consistent implementation. It requires more than reactive statements, it calls for proactive measures, independent oversight, equitable law enforcement, and accountability for those who promote or engage in harmful acts.
One only needs to look at the passage of the Anti-Homosexuality Act (AHA) to know that laws, when misused, can become tools of persecution rather than protection. The AHA did not emerge in isolation; it was driven by misinformation and fear, often targeting vulnerable communities as a distraction from deeper, systemic issues.
For LGBTQ Ugandans, the impact has been devastating. But this moment should also serve as a broader warning: when the rights of one group are eroded, everyone’s freedoms become more fragile.
The fight for human rights is not isolated to any single community; it is a shared pursuit for dignity, fairness and justice. So, we cannot afford to look away when any part of society is under threat. Since the AHA was enacted, the already limited space for LGBTQ+ advocacy has been further restricted.
Activities like organizing, speaking out, or even gathering in private have become risky. Many individuals have lost jobs, homes, family connections—and most painfully, a sense of safety. Some have been forced into hiding, others into exile. Beyond these visible impacts, the trauma experienced within the community is profound.
A society cannot call itself truly democratic if some of its citizens are criminalized simply for being who they are. All of this is made worse by the way LGBTQ+ Ugandans are repeatedly scapegoated in public discourse.
In times of political pressure, queer communities are too often blamed for the country’s social or moral decline—used as symbols of “foreign influence” or moral decay to rally public sentiment.
This calculated framing shifts focus away from real issues and creates an environment where discrimination is normalized, even encouraged. It silences critical conversations, deepens fear, and makes meaningful civic participation nearly impossible for those already on the margins.
Being a human rights defender, especially for marginalized communities in Uganda, often means facing real and ongoing risks. Threats, harassment, and at times, targeted harm are part of the reality. Yet we continue to speak up because we believe in something greater than fear.
We draw strength from each other, from solidarity, and from our shared belief in dignity for all. Advocacy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, steady, and strategic—in the relationships we build, the stories we share, and the courage we show by simply continuing to exist and resist.
Efforts to silence us only reaffirm why our voices matter. One may wonder; has the international community done enough? While statements of concern and promises of support have been made, follow-through has often been limited.
What’s needed is long-term, consistent engagement: targeted measures against human rights violations, sustained support for civil society, and a commitment that extends beyond moments of crisis.
Crucially, international allies must take the time to listen—to truly understand local realities. Solidarity isn’t about imposing solutions; it’s about standing alongside affected communities, backing their strategies, and committing to shared goals. In all this, what gives me hope for Uganda are the people.
Even in the darkest times, there is resilience—in the courage of young activists, in communities that look after one another, and in everyday acts of quiet defiance that say, “We are still here.”
I find hope in laughter that cannot be silenced, in love that endures, and in the organizing that continues quietly behind the scenes. Real change won’t come from one law or one leader—it will come from all of us. And that belief gives me hope.
The author is a human rights advocate and Nobel Peace Prize nominee.